


Tortured Tea for One

by searchingforlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, M/M, Moving On, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Sad John Watson, Sherlock on the Brain, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforlight/pseuds/searchingforlight
Summary: A tortured John Watson finds it unbearable to continue living at 221B Baker Street. Making tea just isn't the same.





	Tortured Tea for One

I stand in the kitchen, slumped over, elbows atop the counter with a frown on my face deepening the creases on my already wrinkled forehead. I run my trembling hand through my slightly greying hair, noting the thinning that has begun due to the recent stress. Making breakfast hasn’t been the same since Sherlock’s death. I used to revel in the idea of meals for one, never having to coax my flatmate to eat when a case preoccupied his mind and denied his body its necessary sustenance. Nor did I ever have to plan around what would be fulfilling to Sherlock when he was ravenous. No, I could produce lavish meals all for myself, enjoying the opportunity to put on my favorite vinyls and dance while chopping fresh vegetables for a classic omelette I purchased the previous the day at the Farmer’s Market. Oh, how I lived for those days when I could spend a small moment without anyone bothering me. 

I turn my head slightly toward the sound of a whistling kettle, bringing me out of my head. I remove my hand from my hair -  _ nervous tick  _ noted by my therapist - and reach to remove the kettle from the heat. Methodically, I rise on the tips of my toes grabbing a cup from the middle shelf on the far right cabinet; no longer are two cups needed as I am alone with my own damning thoughts in this cold empty flat. Reaching for the sugar, I pause, a quiet bittersweet smile rises on the corner of my mouth as I reflect on our case in Baskerville. I’ll never forget the look on Sherlock’s face as he handed me a cup of coffee with two sugars in it for the very first time in our friendship. For as observant as he is, I mean was - I fervently shake my at my phrasing I chose to correct - I could never understand how Sherlock, the one and only consulting detective, could miss that I never took any of my hot drinks with sugar. It was the innocent and prodding look on his face that made me take a sip of that vile liquid he presented to me. Those puppy dog eyes, the slight pout of his thin lips, the small upturn of his left brow. How could I say no to such a face and what seemed to be a genuine gesture? 

No, no sugar. I pull my hand back to my cuppa, gripping the handle tightly as though it could fall from my grasp at any moment. I somberly trudge to the living room, settling in the middle of the couch, letting the early morning sunbeams shining through the window warm my face. I wonder what this morning would have brought me if Sherlock had been around. Reverently I close my eyes, conjuring a scenario that could include just about anything; with Sherlock, anything was possible. This is my form of self torture. Musing at the unknown, and what can no longer come to pass. Tears sting my eyes. It is a comforting notion that I still encounter grief, sadness, and even at times, those tears bring me a sense of astringent joy at the memories I had the pleasure of sharing with The One and Only Detective. 

I gently wipe the grief from my eyes, propping my leg on top of the other, finishing off the lukewarm tea I seem to have absently forgotten while running amok in my own head. This is the moment that I would catch Sherlock slyly gazing at me over the top of his section of the newspaper. He would make a comment such as how I was ‘letting a sufficiently decent enough cuppa go to waste by allowing the temperature of the room to cool it down.’ I would then place the tea cup to the side, and grab my arm, rubbing a circular motion with the pad of my thumb along my jumper, slightly embarrassed at Sherlock’s intimate knowledge of the inner workings of my mind. While we might have never said it, we both understood that there was more than a platonic friendship between us. We were more than mates. Saying those three words though, that would have made all of the emotions come to life, and I don’t believe either of us were ready to outwardly accept ourselves in the way of more than mates. It was what it was with Sherlock. 

A small vibration elicited from my phone brings me back to the present moment that  I wish would abandon me to my own thoughts and memories. Must be Molly checking in, I think to myself, picking up the mug and coming to a stand. I behold the room around me - dust lying upon scattered papers, holes needing to be replastered from moments of boredom, and that chair. Sherlock’s chair. The setting for all of our cases. The basis of our friendship.  _ The chair. _ I can no longer stay here. Everything is a sure reminder that nothing will ever the same without Sherlock Holmes. 

I rush to the sink, leaving the dirtied cup to be washed, hopefully, by Mrs. Hudson. I hope she understands. Wiping my wet hands on the flannel sitting next to the basin, I think of how I cannot bear to take in another moment of residing in this flat. Every moment I stay here, I veer closer to joining Sherlock in his grave. It has to stop. All of this bemoaning and desires of ceasing to exist. I must live. Certainty in my step, I march to the coat rack, extract my jacket from its place to cover my own weary body, and unveil one of Sherlock’s many blue scarves. Gingerly caressing the article of clothing between my fingers, I bring its warmth and softness to my face. I inhale the essence of a once living Sherlock: worn, cared for books sitting on their bookshelves, blackberry jam from all the morning breakfasts shared together, and seeped deep into this fabric, a small hint of lingering tobacco. I hesitate to release this token left for me. Do I keep this for my own, or leave it to retain the aesthetic of our flat? The debate in my mind is quickly ended as I lift the scarf from its hook, mindful to not snag any of the possible loose threads, folding it carefully, and placing my one gift from Sherlock under my arms. Turning to leave, I take one last glance of the flat, visions flashing before my eyes. 

“I wished for you to not be dead. I dreamed every night that you were just mocking us all and waiting to come back of your own accord. Proving to all of us that you, of all people, were immortal. But you were just a human, albeit the best man and human …” I dislodge a lump caught in my throat causing my words to sound more strained than I had anticipated “… human being I’ve ever known. I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” Tears glisten my eyes once more, and this time, I turn to leave, pulling the door shut, listening to the latch of the handle behind me echo throughout the empty hallway. I can handle these emotions no longer. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” I intimately breathe, hurrying down the stairs, feet crashing alarmingly as I fought not to turn back and bury myself in the shadow of the life I once had. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to elldotsee and Thornypeach for their wonderful insights and for keeping my muse alive. <3


End file.
